


A Case Quite Unexpected

by KatriaBloom (boomsherlocka)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson's Blog, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, Valentine's Day, Valentine's exchange, valentine's gift exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomsherlocka/pseuds/KatriaBloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Johnlockchallenges V-Day Gift Exchange. I wrote for Tumblr User Webeta123, and their prompt was "Sherlock in a nurse outfit". </p><p>This happened. I hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case Quite Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [webeta123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/webeta123/gifts).



> Thank you very much to wakeuptothemoon and sailorchiron for their invaluable help in the making of this story. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

_(Unpublished draft from the blog of Dr John H. Watson, MD)_

**_27 January_ **

The case had been relatively simple, in the end: A string of deaths in exclusive nightclubs culminating in the demise of a rather annoying but rather famous American socialite. Sherlock had been contacted by the family, who had made their billions in technology, and had been tasked to find out what exactly had caused their death.

Sherlock suspected a designer drug gone wrong, which is how he got the brilliant idea to sneak into the coroner’s office to get a look at the reports and potentially get his own samples of blood to send to Molly for testing. The bodies had been taken to an ‘inferior’ morgue, run by ‘simpletons’. His words, obviously.

So when Sherlock came bounding out of his bedroom wearing pink scrubs, trainers and a pair of really smart eyeglasses I was sort of…dumbstruck, to say the very least. And he looked at me like I was a bloody idiot because when I flippantly suggested that he dress up like a nurse and sneak his way in, I didn’t think he would actually do it. And it wasn’t that particular costume I had in mind when I suggested it. I’ve seen his costume closet. I know he has a white nurse’s dress. I don’t know why he has a white nurse’s dress, but to be honest there are much stranger articles of clothing in that costume closet. Vinyl gimp suit. I don’t want to ask. But I sort of do.

Allow me a bit of digression, if you will, to share an observation about Sherlock Holmes, genius detective. He likes to act. He loves to create characters. He’s got a whole menagerie of them that he can slip in and out of with ease, like putting on a well-worn coat. The stage missed out when Sherlock Holmes decided to be a detective. Sherlock’s favourite part of the character, though, is finding the right costume. Once he’s got the costume everything else falls into place. The only thing he loves more than a costume is a uniform. He is a nut for uniforms. He somehow managed to get his hands on an exact replica of my dress uniform and paid me to put it on so he could take pictures. He’s a bit of a freak. About uniforms. That makes him sound much creepier than he actually is. He hasn’t built a shrine of photos of me, as far as I know. Not sure what he did with them in the end. I don’t want to ask.

Maybe I do.

So we’ve established that Sherlock has a uniform fetish, yes? On top of the authority fetish. I’ll come out and say it. He has a bit of an authority complex that excites him. I noticed it first when he riled my up enough to punch him, even more so at Baskerville, and I learned I had the power to get him to do whatever I wanted if I just…demanded it of him. A powerful tool, that. He has to be forced into submission, mind, but he loves it. I wasn’t sure exactly how much, though. We hadn’t really talked about it, where exactly we stood. Romantically, alright? I’ll come out and admit it. Everyone already thinks it, so there it is. I’m not gay. I’ve said it a million times. I’m not. But I find myself in love with a man so I’m just…going with it. And when Sherlock looks at me sometimes I see something shift in his eyes and my stomach sort of begins to eat itself and I think….maybe?... and then he gets swept off doing god knows what and the moment is over.  So that’s what I’ve been fucking living with.

I digress. Again. None of this is ever going on the blog. Not sure why I’m still writing this.

Okay, we’ve established Sherlock’s uniform kink. He loves a man in uniform. He loves wearing them, seeing people wear them, the shift in authority the moment you put one on, all that. What we haven’t established is that I also have a bit of a uniform kink. How could I not? I was in the army. I saw what those uniforms could accomplish. The awe they inspired. I am also a doctor. Now, despite what those silly medical dramas might have you believe, we aren’t all having sex in the on-call room any time we aren’t performing life-saving surgery. I mean, I won’t deny that I’ve had it off with nurses in my time. Plenty of nurses. So when I talk about my uniform kink, it usually involves scrubs. More often than not, the scrubs are pink.

See? Now we’ve reached the crux of the issue. Sherlock flouncing around the flat in pink scrubs calling me doctor and generally making me rather sexually frustrated. And then the bastard just leaves to get blood from dead club kids to prove that they died of a particularly bad trip.

I would like to say that I do not allow myself to indulge in masturbatory fantasies involving Sherlock, but if I did I would be lying. How could I not? This time I tried not to, though, because my cock seems to be like Pavlov’s bloody dog and begins to drool at the sight of pink scrubs. That’s disgusting, I know, but accurate. I don’t want to reinforce that particular behaviour, seeing as there is no way to know how long this case is going to last and as a result there is no way of knowing if those scrubs were due to make another public appearance. And one cannot have one’s cock at attention every time their flatmate shows up dressed like a healthcare professional. It’s just not on.

So, I held off. Didn’t wank. Tried very hard not to wank. Waited an hour to wank. Didn’t think about Sherlock while wanking. Only thought about Sherlock in pink scrubs while wanking. Fucking could not stop thinking about Sherlock while wanking.

And failed to notice that Sherlock had returned and was watching me wank with a very strange look on his face. Mind, I was in the sitting room on the sofa that Sherlock uses almost exclusively to pout with my cock in my hand, trying not to think about coming all over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s standing there watching me like he’s witnessing the miracle of childbirth and was never quite certain how the whole process worked until that very moment.

We just…looked at each other for a long time. My cock in my hand. Fucking idiot.

And then Sherlock’s pink scrub bottoms tented.

I’m not entirely sure what I said after that. I know I said something, though, that was along the lines of ‘Get the fuck over here, you idiot’, and he did. He knelt in front of me and stuck his hand down his trousers and sucked my cock into his mouth and I was gone. Babbling. I have a really bad habit of pretty much narrating sex—telling him where to put pressure, harder, faster, yes just there, brilliant work nurse—and Sherlock fucking laughed at me, deep in his chest, and I felt it like a jolt of lightning straight through me. He laughed and hummed and sucked me and I cursed like a bloody sailor. I’m thankful there is no recording of it. I’d be mortified.

I came down Sherlock’s throat, whimpering like a loon, and Sherlock came into his own hand with his face pressed into my thigh. Still have the teeth marks.

Sherlock had solved the case. The case of the tainted drugs, not the case of my failed attempts at pretending I wasn’t head over bloody heels with him. The original case. It was all traced back to a dealer in Soho who had provided all of them with the cocktail that was supposed to help them party longer and harder, but instead just made them have heart attacks and die. He was put in prison, the scrubs were put away, and life went back to normal. Sort of. As normal as life can be with Sherlock.

Except now Sherlock, when he’s feeling playful, calls me Doctor Watson. And his smile turns wicked when I call him Nurse. Press here, Nurse. Hard.

Think I’ll ask him to wear the white dress next.

 

 


End file.
